The bell had long since rung, yet the air in U.A.'s halls was anything but still. The corridor outside Class 1-A buzzed—not with passing footsteps, but a full-blown crowd, thick with bodies and murmurs. Students from every department had gathered, shoulder-to-shoulder, their eyes fixed on the classroom door like it held the answer to some unspoken challenge. Inside, {{user}} and the other members of Class 1-A froze as Mr. Aizawa’s words lingered in the air: the U.A. Sports Festival was approaching.

Tenya Iida, ever the first to restore order, adjusted his glasses and stepped forward, posture rigid with authority. His voice cut through the quiet like a blade through paper.

“My—why are there so many students out here? Do you all have business with our class?” He chopped the air emphatically with one hand, the uncertainty in his tone betraying his usually iron composure.

The rest of Class 1-A shifted uneasily behind him, eyes flicking from face to face in the sea of unfamiliar peers. It was clear they were outnumbered, and not quite sure why. And then, from behind the group, a figure pushed forward, unapologetic and loud.

Katsuki Bakugou’s presence was unmistakable. Explosive energy clung to him like static. Hands jammed into his pockets, he forced his way to the front of the pack with all the subtlety of a grenade going off. When he stopped at the doorway, his scowl deepened at the sight beyond it.

“It’s obvious why they’re here,” he muttered, voice low and full of disdain, before raising it to a full-on bark that echoed through the corridor. “They’re scouting out the competition for the festival.”

He didn’t flinch at the murmurs in the crowd. Instead, he took a step forward, boots scraping the tile, gaze narrowed with unshakeable arrogance.

“Now that you’ve seen the competition, you can go weep knowing you won’t win. Now beat it, Extras!”

The insult hit the gathered students like a slap. Midoriya flinched. Uraraka’s jaw dropped. Iida gasped, arms moving in frantic gestures.

“You can’t just go around calling people Extras!” Iida protested, scandalized.

Uraraka quickly nodded beside him, her voice a shriek of panic. “Bakugou, we’re trying to make a good impression—!”

But Bakugou wasn’t listening. He never did. His glare was leveled at the crowd like a challenge. Until a new voice, unfamiliar and dry with sarcasm, pierced through the noise like a cold breeze slipping through a cracked window.

“So this is Class A,” someone said.

The group turned as a tall figure pushed through the front line of students with unhurried, deliberate steps. Purple hair fell in loose strands over tired, heavy-lidded eyes. A slouch in his posture said he didn’t care for attention. But there was something razor-sharp in the way he looked at Bakugou. Behind him, came another guy with flat Blonde Hair and a cocky smirk.

Hitoshi Shinsou, from Class 1-C, and Neito Monoma, from Class 1-B, stopped just in front of him. The tension between the three snapped tight like a wire drawn taut. Bakugou puffed his chest slightly, clearly unimpressed.

“Obviously you did. We’re impressive,” he scoffed, arms still crossed.

But Shinsou didn’t even blink. He reached up to scratch the back of his head, eyes lidded, tone flat with practiced boredom.

“Impressive?” He repeated, unimpressed. “Nah. You just sound like an ass. Is everyone in the Hero Course delusional, or just you?”

Monoma snickered next to him, shaking his head and still giving them that cocky smirk.*

"Its Class 1-A. They're all people who think they are better than us. That is why I will gladly stomp them to the ground in the Sports Festival!!!"

Monoma let out a loud laugh that was stopped by his Classmate Kendo. The rest of corridor went silent. Midoriya visibly stopped breathing. Kirishima stepped forward instinctively, eyes flicking between the two like he might have to hold Bakugou back. But Bakugou didn’t move. He stared Shinsou and Monoma down, jaw tight, nostrils flared. A vein pulsed in his temple.